


A Week Later

by Spiria



Category: Final Fantasy IX
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 16:54:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12113100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spiria/pseuds/Spiria
Summary: The sight of Zidane on his knees, bruised and battered, with Kuja’s arm wrapped around an injured shoulder is one that Vivi will never forget.





	A Week Later

**Author's Note:**

> For Danica, whose birthday is today.
> 
> She wanted Zidane and Kuja to call each other brother. I'm the worst at following directions, so let's all see how that won't happen while I stretch and pull the lore to make it suit my needs.

Zidane’s tumbling into the Black Mage Village is a chaotic affair attended by a throng of black mages and genomes. Their hushed whispers and curious stares thicken the otherwise clean forest air, and Vivi swears that he’ll never forget the sight of Zidane on his knees, bruised and battered, with Kuja’s arm wrapped around his injured shoulder. Zidane glances around at the crowd, his every breath heavy and blowing against the stray strands of hair that have fallen over his face.

“Hey . . . any help? He’s heavier than he looks,” he says, neglecting to mention that Kuja had apparently stopped breathing not very long ago.

But Kuja has yet to pass. Dozens of healing spells and concoctions later, the rise and fall of his chest are steady, if shallow. And though Zidane is in about as poor of a state as his kin, he insists on resting at Kuja’s bedside. A veritable mummy with a myriad of bandages wrapped around his limbs and head, he hugs the back of the chair he’s claimed for himself, his tail resting limply against the edge of the seat as he studies Kuja’s features.

“I knew he was tall, but I didn’t realize how much until I had to carry him,” he tells Vivi, who plays with the brim of his hat.

“I can’t believe you’re both here,” replies Vivi.

Zidane’s ungloved hand comes down to rest on Vivi’s shoulder, and his voice is both kind and gentle when he says, “I told you that I’d catch up.”

 

* * *

 

Another week later, Kuja awakens. In stepping out of the hut he’d been convalescing within without so much as a squeak from the door, he almost spooks the hats off of the black mages within view once they turn their heads. Petrified by the unexpected appearance, Vivi watches as Zidane skids to a hurried stop next to Kuja, who gives his brother a neutral but penetrating look.

“You’re awake!” exclaims Zidane.

“So it would seem. But I’m a little tired,” replies Kuja.

He turns around and walks back inside, Zidane following suit with some haste. The rest of the black mages and genomes return to their regular routine, albeit with a modicum of tension still hanging in the air, while Vivi approaches the hut. He listens to the muffled voices on the other side; then he sighs, shakes his head, and walks away. They deserve a day to themselves, he thinks.

 

* * *

 

“Hey, Vivi. He wants to talk to you.”

After hearing those eight words, Vivi soon finds himself standing across Kuja, who remains bedridden a month later on an otherwise smooth path to recovery. The man from another world has shed his armor in favor of comfort (a surprisingly simple attire picked from the village’s modest assortment), his softened yet sharp expression bearing little of his past arrogance. Vivi plays with his hat again, uncertainty gnawing at him from the inside when Kuja breaks the muggy silence.

“Do you want to live?” he asks, and Vivi’s heart skips a beat. “I don’t know how much longer you have. But your memories . . . The soul you’ve nurtured in the company of your companions may yet be preserved.”

“I . . . ” Vivi trails off.

“Your time with your friends needn’t be short. Think about my offer, and tell me your decision later.”

With a dejected dip of his head, Vivi all but flees the hut in a crawl of a run. He walks past Zidane, who’d been waiting at the door but doesn’t pursue out of deference for his privacy. Suddenly alone and confused--to the fault of no one, only himself--he cogitates before the graves of his fellow black mages, wondering when he, too, will stop and leave his many friends behind.

 

* * *

 

Six months later, Zidane informs him that Kuja has a year left to live. The black mages in the area perk up at the mention of a familiar lifespan, and their treatment of their creator changes from that day onward; their increased generosity and kindness all but choke the patience out of Kuja, who begins to sequester himself to avoid what he’s deemed pity. Amid the strange atmosphere that’s been cast over the village, Vivi wanders until his feet take him to Mikoto’s door.

“A soul does not come to being from nothingness: Individuality gives rise to its gift. Memories shape that individuality; should it be passed along to another vessel, you should be able to begin anew as a blank slate,” she explains, the cadence of her voice so neutral and consistent as to produce a calming effect.

“But there’s no more Mist in the world. How can I get a new body?” asks Vivi.

“Mist is the residue of souls that was rejected from the cycle of life. But in creating memories of your own, you generated a soul for yourself. You, and every black mage here, no longer require the Mist. Kuja knows this and is confident that he will be able to craft you a new body without it.”

To be sure, Kuja remains proud and confident as the day he was born in spite of his losing so much more. Vivi realizes that he doesn’t doubt Kuja’s competence in the matter; however, upon considering Mikoto’s knowledge, he raises his head with a question in his eyes.

“Then wouldn’t it be possible for Kuja to live, too?”

“That is not possible,” says Mikoto without a hint of a pause.

“Why?”

Mikoto looks away. “Terra is no more. Vessels as we once were can never be created again . . . When he expires, his soul will be lost to us.”

 

* * *

 

“What should I do?” asks Vivi, his gaze downcast and his feet heavy in suspension, as they cannot reach the floor from the height of the lower bunk.

“I think you should do what you want to do. There’s no right or wrong in this. No one will say anything whether you accept or refuse,” says Zidane, his tail swaying languidly from his perch on the upper bunk of the bed.

“I . . . I want to live day to day with no regrets. That’s the decision I made when we were still journeying.”

“Yeah, you did. You taught me a lot at the time.”

While his heart flutters faintly at the compliment, Vivi’s shoulders droop. “Knowing that, can I still choose to live longer?”

The potential hypocrisy of wanting to live each day while extending his ambiguous lifespan nags at every corner of his mind. He gently clasps his hands together, asking himself if he’s allowed to have both without feeling like he’s cheated everyone else. He hears Zidane hum, then the protesting squeak from the mattress and wooden frame as Zidane leaps from the bed to land gracefully on the floor.

“You know what I think? We’re looking at this all wrong,” says Zidane, resting his hands on his hips. “Listen . . . my brother’s not the best at explaining things sometimes. The way he said it, it sounded like he’s trying to extend your life, but I don’t think that’s what he meant.”

Vivi cocks his head to the side, the tip of his hat grazing against the bottom of the upper bunk’s frame. “Then how can he preserve my soul?”

“Think about it. Where else have you seen what he’s suggesting? People, giving a part of themselves to create a new life . . . Kuja’s not talking about cheating your lifespan. He wants to take your soul and give you a family to carry on your legacy. So the question is . . . do _you_ want to make a family, Vivi?”

At that very moment, Vivi knows the answer.

 

* * *

 

In the September of 1801, Kuja goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up again. With the final vestiges of his black magic spent, the light in Vivi’s eyes flicker out within the same day. The black mages, aided by Zidane, bury both bodies in the village cemetery, and the day carries on with almost reverent peace.

 

Life goes on. A week later, several pairs of eyes flicker to life before a smiling man and a reserved young woman at his side.


End file.
